An Unexpected Gentleman (39 page)

“She’s upstairs,” Connor ground out. “Not missing.”

“For now.”

“For good,” he snapped. Whatever was gnawing on his chest clamped down with iron jaws. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Michael mulled that over a bit before asking, “What if she did? What if she went missing?”

The jaws gnashed and ground. “She’ll not.”

“But if she did,” Michael pressed. “If she decides she don’t want a husband what puts her last. What then? Would you look for her?”

“I don’t put her last.” He reached for his glass, discovered it empty, and swore. “And of course I’d bloody look for her. What sort of question is that?”

Gregory shared a quick look with Michael. “Aye, but would you be looking for her if your brother went missing as well?”

“If he kidnapped her?” That question was more ridiculous than the last. He’d never let it happen. “What—?”

“Not kidnapped,” Michael cut in, rolling his eyes. “Gone missing at the same time. Adelaide’s left you. Sir Robert’s gone off to hide in the laps of luxury and a pretty tart.”

Connor pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for patience. “If there is a point to be made by these questions, make it now.”

“Who are you going after?” Gregory huffed with impatience. “Your wife or Sir Robert?”

“Both.” He’d find Adelaide, lock her in their chambers, then hunt down the baron.

Michael swore and tossed his hands up in defeat. “Boy’s friggin hopeless.”

Gregory muttered something about wood and forests. “Now listen carefully, lad; you know what’s being asked of you. Which are you wanting more, your wife or your revenge?” Gregory jabbed a finger at him in a rare show of temper. “And don’t you be telling me both. You’ll answer the question as I put it to you, or I’ll be taking a strap to your hide. Not so bleeding big I can’t beat some respect into you.”

Connor struggled between his threatened pride and the respect Gregory demanded. He itched to call Gregory on his bluff—
Try it, old man
—and knew damn well he’d cut out his own tongue before it could form the words.

Pushing away from the desk, he rose to pour himself another drink at the sideboard.

He wasn’t the one being unreasonable. They wanted a simple answer to a complicated question. That wasn’t the way the world was fashioned. Nothing was black and white. There were no absolutes, no definitive rights or wrongs. But if they wanted an empty, useless answer, they could have it.

Did Adelaide mean more to him than his revenge, or didn’t she?

He forced himself to contemplate the notion of failing in his revenge. Sir Robert deserved to hurt. He deserved to suffer for every stolen coin, every second of hunger, every moment of fear and cold and misery. And Connor very much wanted to be the cause of that suffering, not just for himself but for Adelaide and his men.

That played into the question, didn’t it? It damn well should. How could he want Adelaide and not want to butcher the man who’d hurt her?

“Sodding black and white.”

“What’s that, boy?”

“I’m thinking,” he snapped over his shoulder.

Though it chafed, he pushed aside the matter of what was owed to Adelaide and his men and imagined how he would react if Sir Robert disappeared in the night, never to be seen or heard from again. He’d be furious. Without question, he would gnash his teeth over the loss of vengeance for a good long while. But eventually . . . Eventually he would learn to live with it. He’d not be happy about it, but, probably, he could learn to be happy without it, or at least around it. He’d survive.

Satisfied with the conclusion, he took a drink of his brandy and turned his thoughts to Adelaide.

If something happened to Adelaide . . .

The teeth in his chest tore viciously.

If she went missing . . .

His stomach twisted into a sick knot.

If she were never seen or heard from again . . .

The brandy turned to acid in his throat.

He set his drink down with a hand that shook. Holy hell, he couldn’t even get past the question. He couldn’t bring himself to think of what his world would be like without Adelaide. He’d all but torn his hair out when she’d been gone for half a day. How could he even fathom a lifetime without her? How could he contemplate what it would be like to live, day after day, without seeing her smile, hearing her voice, feeling her warm and safe in his arms?

He needed her. It was as plain as that. He wanted revenge. He craved it. But Adelaide, he needed. It was a terrifying and humbling realization.

The thirst for vengeance, he understood. It involved cause and effect. It had a definable beginning, middle, and end. Vengeance was due because Sir Robert had destroyed a part of his life. The thirst would be quenched when the favor had been returned. It was simple, quantifiable, and most important, manageable. The nature of the revenge, the steps between beginning and end, the length of time it took to reach the goal, those were entirely up to him. Even the depth to which he wanted his revenge was, to a degree, within his power to alter.

But this need for Adelaide, he had no power over that. Because unlike a desire for vengeance, what he felt for Adelaide could not be quantified, managed, or defined. Unlike vengeance, love was not something he could control.

Connor closed his eyes and swallowed a groan.

Bloody, bloody hell, he was in love with his wife.

Every fiber of his being rejected the notion. He despised not being in control. He had no experience with love. This sort of love, anyway. He wasn’t a stranger to other sorts. He’d loved his mother and father, and though wild horses come from an icy hell couldn’t drag the admission from his mouth at present, he loved Gregory and Michael. The first had been the love between child and parents. It came naturally and existed simply because they existed. Gregory and Michael—well, that was nearly as easy. They were the same as him. They wanted the same things, held the same expectations.

But this, what he felt for Adelaide . . . It was an altogether different sort of love. It was enormous, overwhelming, dangerous. It had the power to strip him of his pride and required he give over a part of himself, even all of himself.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Come to a decision, have you?” Michael’s cheerful voice grated.

Connor forced himself to turn and face his men.

“Yes,” he said. “I want Adelaide more. She means more.” She meant everything.

Michael nodded, then shrugged. “Then show her.”

Despite the fear churning in his system, Connor chuckled.
Show her.
What a charming bit of advice from a man whose only known romantic gesture was to slip his favorite Boston barmaid a crown before he left for Scotland. Several times her usual fee.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered. He’d given Adelaide fifteen thousand pounds. He sincerely doubted she’d be moved by a tumble and a coin.

Even agreeing to limit the time he spent on planning revenge would likely prove inadequate now. He imagined offering his heart, laying open his soul to Adelaide, and watching her toss it aside.

Guilt flooded him and was closely followed by the fiery lick of panic.

“I need to think.”

He’d apologize. He’d take the words back. He’d make it up to her.

Vaguely, he was aware of returning to his seat. Mostly, he was focused on how futile and trite it would be to make yet another apology. He’d hurt her more than he could hope to make up for. Why the devil should she accept his apology now? Why would she even believe it? She’d offered him everything, more than he’d ever thought to hope for, and out of fear and selfishness, he’d tossed it all aside as if it meant nothing.

His eyes landed on the piles of papers upon his desk, and, suddenly, the panic began to retreat in the light of a new determination.

She’d offered more than he’d asked for. He could do the same.

He lurched from his chair. “Right. The plan is off. We’re done.”

“What?” Michael threw a startled glance at Gregory. “The plan . . . Entirely, you mean?”

“Now lad,” Gregory said patiently. “I don’t know as you’re needing to go so far as all that.”

“We were thinking you might scale back a hair,” Michael explained. “Maybe take an extra hour here and there—”

“We’re done.” He grabbed a small stack of papers at random. “Destroy the rest. All of it. Do you understand?”

The men exchanged another glance.

“Aye.”

A
delaide huddled in front of the fire in the master chambers. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, curled up in the chair. An hour . . . two? She barely remembered leaving the library, or asking one of the maids to light the fire. Time turned murky and sluggish. The better, she supposed, to draw out every long second of her misery.

Her heart ached like an open wound, and twice now, she’d crawled into bed, hoping to escape in sleep. But each time she’d closed her eyes, she saw Connor smiling at that bloody note and felt him letting her go, and her heart broke all over again.

She tried to rationalize the hurt away, tried to defeat it with common sense. Her anger and disappointment were unreasonable. She and Connor had married out of convenience. He’d never agreed to put her first. He’d never promised to love her.

It was foolish of her to have hoped for or expected more than what she was owed—his name and fifteen thousand pounds a year.

The lump in her throat broke free on a sob.

Foolish or not, she’d never wanted anything, hoped for anything, so desperately in her life as to hear Connor return her love. And she’d never been wounded so deeply as she’d been by his cold rejection.

Oh, God, it was more than heartache . . . It was the humiliation of knowing she wasn’t what Connor wanted, and the fear he might never have what he needed to find peace. What if revenge brought only a hollow victory? What if Sir Robert slid out of reach altogether?

She wiped her sleeve across her wet cheeks and wondered how she could stand it—watching Connor suffer, knowing there was nothing she could do to help him, nothing she could offer that might bring him some measure of happiness.

The tears welled up again, but she sniffled and held them back as the door creaked open behind her. Thinking it was a maid come to tend the fire, Adelaide lifted a hand to stay her.

“Forgive me, but I’d like to be left alone, please.”

“I know.” Connor’s voice settled over her softly. “I’m sorry . . . Will you look at me, Adelaide?”

She shook her head. She was shivering, and her eyes felt swollen and sore. She wanted time to pull herself together. “I wish you’d go away.”

“I know,” he said tenderly.

She heard the soft pad of his footsteps on the carpet. “Connor, please—”

“I’ve brought something for you.”

He was standing behind her now, close enough to reach out and touch, and yet she’d never felt so distant from him. “I don’t want anything. I don’t need gifts.”

“This one is for both of us.” His arm came around the chair, and in his hand he held a thick stack of papers. The top one was a badly stained map, hand-sketched in blue ink.

Bewildered, she stared at it. “I don’t understand . . . Do you want my help?”

He came around the chair slowly and made a low sound in his throat when he saw her face. With a carefulness that held her enthralled, he crouched before her and gently rubbed his fingers along the drying tear tracks on her cheeks. His green eyes trailed over her features, as if he was memorizing every detail. “I don’t deserve you.”

A frown tugged at her brow. “That’s not true. I never—” She broke off when he stood, papers in hand, and stepped purposefully toward the fire. His intent was clear as day. “Wait! What are you doing?”

He gave her an incredulous look over his shoulder. “It’s not obvious?”

She rose from the chair on legs that shook. “You can’t. It means everything to you.”

“No. It does not.”

He lifted the hand holding the papers.

“Stop! No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want this. You’ll regret it. You’ll come to—”

“The only thing I regret,” he said evenly, “is having waited so long.”

“Wait!”

He dropped the arm again with a beleaguered sigh. “You’re not making this any easier, sweetheart.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But if you do this . . .” Then he would have nothing of his revenge, she thought, not even the sliver he’d thought he’d already obtained. She licked lips gone dry. She’d never imagined it would come to this. “I should have told you, but I was afraid you wouldn’t . . .” Her hands clenched in the folds of her skirt. “You exacted no revenge on Sir Robert by marrying me. He never wanted me. He was never in love with me. His reasons for courting me were no different than your own.”